


The Waitress and the Former Politician

by Nehszriah



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode Fix-It: s09e12 Hell Bent, Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent, F/M, NSFW, Post-Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent, Prompt Fic, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 14:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8627719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: Wiping off the lacquered wooden surface, Clara made sure that the top of the bar was clean before getting on with the glasses remaining from the lunch rush. She wasn’t entirely sure what had sparked the desire to move to Aberdeen, yet there she was: working in a pub until she could get a teaching job over the summer. There were worse things that she could do, surely. It was a change of pace, was all. Those weren’t necessarily bad. [taken from a tumblr prompt]





	

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt off tumblr that started this happened to be the following: "Both The Doctor and Clara end up getting their memories wiped after Hell Bent. The Doctor goes around living as a man named Malcolm and spends his evenings at a pub or coffee shop because the young woman, Clara, who serves him reminds him an awful lot of someone he knew and vice versa. One day Malcolm walks her home and things may or may not lead to one thing or another entirely up to you."

Ashildr stared at the scene before her, the now-rare sensation of shock shooting through her. Both Clara and the Doctor were on the floor unconscious, the memory wiping device between them, as the device had backfired on them both. The ageless being—though physically a teen—cautiously stepped forward, approaching the scene with caution.

“Voice interface?”

The image of a man, one that tugged at something deep in her heart for whatever reason, appeared before her, next to her collapsed friends. “TARDIS Voice Interface System activated. What is the issue at hand?”

“What do I do?”

“Too many variables; please specify.”

“What do I do about the Doctor and Clara?”

The voice interface paused, calculating the options. “You could do nothing.”

“I don’t think that’s a viable option.”

“You could care for them until their memories return.”

“Too messy—too complicated.”

“There is another option…”

* * *

Wiping off the lacquered wooden surface, Clara made sure that the top of the bar was clean before getting on with the glasses remaining from the lunch rush. The work was much more physical than she was used to—carrying and running about—but it was a satisfying sort of thing. She wasn’t entirely sure what had sparked the desire to move to Aberdeen, yet there she was: working in a pub until she could get a teaching job over the summer.

There were worse things that she could do, surely. It was a change of pace, was all. Those weren’t necessarily bad.

The bell on the door rang and Clara couldn’t help but smile. Malcolm was a regular who came in twice a week during the lull between lunch and dinner. He claimed to have been an old government workhorse, put to pasture via early retirement and redundancy that affected over half of his department. They took a liking to one another immediately; something about him seemed familiar, but Clara couldn’t tell what and why.

“How’s business today?” he asked, sitting down in his usual spot at the bar.

“Oh, fair enough,” she replied. She got him his usual starter of water and the bowl of peanuts from the other end of the bar and continued cleaning. “It was a bit slow in the morning, apparently, but it should pick up tonight due to the football match. How about you? Gotten any headway on the memoir?”

“Complete fucking block—I’d have a better time picking up a rag and joining you behind the bar.”

“It’ll come to you, I know it will.”

“Thanks. You’re wasted behind there, you know?”

“…as you say every day.”

“…and every day I mean it,” he assured.

That was how they started, nearly every time he came in. While she cleaned up, he would talk to her about the stuff he was considering for his memoir, though with all the fantastic ideas he came up with when it came to messing with the other patrons, she tried to encourage him to go into fiction-writing. Dinnertime rolled around and Malcolm ordered some fish and chips with a pint, nursing the single drink down until just before the match ended. Eventually, it was time for Clara’s shift to be over, yet as she stepped out into the frigid night air, a familiar face followed her out towards the pavement.

“Would it be alright if I walk you home?” Malcolm asked, making sure he wasn’t standing too close. “I’d feel better knowing you got home amongst the throngs of randy, piss-drunk football fans.”

“You don’t trust I can take care of myself?” she smirked.

“It’s not that, just… there’s some things even martial arts can’t prepare someone for… please?”

“Alright, thank you.” Clara took hold of Malcolm’s arm and they began to walk towards the bus stop. “I don’t mind chivalry, but it has to be for the right reasons.”

“I understand,” he agreed. “There’s something that makes me feel good when I’m with you… though I’d be damned if I knew what it was exactly.”

“The word you’re probably looking for is either ‘hormones’ or ‘pheromones’,” she teased.

“Hey, I thought you were supposed to be looking for a position teaching Literature, not science.”

“Just because I got an A Level doesn’t mean I actually went and pursued it.”

“Fair enough.” Malcolm glanced down at the tiny woman on his arm and something inside him fluttered. He wasn’t sure why he felt odd around her, as though they’d known one another for much longer than a few months, but it was a consistent, familiar, pleasant feeling.

Up onto the packed bus and off they went across town. Malcolm kept an arm around Clara’s shoulders the entire way, as there were few handholds and it kept the football sloshes from looking at her. She didn’t seem to mind, edging up against him and even resting her head against his chest, which sent thoughts racing through his brain. Was this her going along with the act or were they more than just acting?

They disembarked with a couple of the fans, giving them a wide berth as they walked towards Clara’s flat block. It was not far from the bus stop, meaning that their journey was cut shorter than either would have liked.

“Thanks again,” Clara said. She perched up on her toes and kissed Malcolm on the cheek, which made him turn a vicious shade of red-pink.

“N-No p-p-problem… I… fuck…”

“Would you like to have some tea?”

“Sure; when?”

“Now.”

Taking a deep breath of cold night air, Malcolm let out a small laugh of disbelief. “Fuck… really?”

“Really.”

“Okay—now’s good.”

He cautiously followed her up the stairs and over towards her door. There wasn’t much to her flat other than books and the things people usually kept otherwise. She had him sit down on a battered couch that looked like it came with the place and a few minutes later she reappeared with a tea tray laden with biscuits, a small teapot, and two mugs.

“I don’t know how you take your tea, so help yourself,” she said. She watched as he put several cubes of sugar in his mug and poured tea over it. “ _Nine_ lumps?”

“Just enough so I don’t melt in the rain.”

“…or develop diabetes?”

“Some of us were born with all the right genes, love.”

A silence settled between them; that wasn’t a word he ever referred to her by. Other male patrons around his age would, but it would be the same if they were talking to anyone. This… this was new.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“What for?”

“That’s rude, yeah? I’ve been trying hard, now that I’m not in a shitty job that requires me to be rude and nasty in order for anything to get done even halfway, but it must’ve slipped out.”

“Do you think of me that way?”

“No, never. I’m amazed it even came to me at all.”

“I’m not.”

Clara reached over towards Malcolm’s free hand and picked it up, holding it gently. The feeling that jolted through him at that moment _was_ familiar, though a bit old and awkward, making him realize fully what it was that was drawing him to her.

“Is this what you want…?” he wondered.

“Is it what _you_ want?”

Hands shaking, Malcolm put his mug back down on the tray. Fuck… his hands _never_ shook. He held onto Clara’s face with both his hands and kissed her tentatively. His heart then skipped a beat when she put down her tea and began to kiss back.

He must’ve been dead—the useless pricks down in Whitehall were right and he _was_ on the fast-track to an early grave, because there was no way that this was reality. Clara knelt up on the couch cushion to get a better vantage point and pushed him down onto his back. This was happening… this was really happening. He could feel white-hot heat coming from her thighs as they settled on either side of his own. Before he knew it, he had one hand up the back of her shirt, unclasping her bra, while the other was up her front and cupping a now-free breast.

“Nnnngh… fucking _fuck_ me…” he moaned into her mouth. “Been out of this a while; it alright to shag on the first date… tea party… whatever the fuck this is?”

“If that bulge in your trousers is as large as I think it is, then absolutely.”

Malcolm grinned and not only squeezed the breast in his grasp, but held Clara’s hips in place as he ground into them with his own. She cried out in approval, bolstering his ego and making his prick pulse with blood and anticipation.

“Bed?” he asked.

“Fuck… yes,” she hissed. She pulled him up to his feet and dragged him through the flat, bringing him to her cramped bedroom. He tried to hold in his gasp of delight when she shoved him against the wall and began to work on his belt. “Your pants have question marks on them? How long _has_ it been since you last got a leg up?”

“Honestly? Not sure.”

“Then follow my lead and try not to jump the gun early.” As she stripped him, he was able to get her blouse unbuttoned and off her, shoving the bra along with it. Underneath the smell of stale ale, peanuts, and chips, he found, her hair still smelled like sweet, crisp citrus. She pushed him down onto the bed and took care of her bottom half, staring hungrily at his erection.

“You got any condoms around here?” he asked breathlessly.

“On the pill,” she replied. She climbed into bed and shoved away the magazines and unfolded laundry that were taking up precious mattress-related real estate and resumed kissing the man beneath her. His hips bucked to meet hers eagerly, a detail she readily noticed. Grasping him firmly, she waited until he whimpered her name in her ear before sinking down on him, sliding his cock fully into her as though it belonged there.

Shit… belonged there? It was like the bloody thing was _made_ for her. Clara glanced down at Malcolm and saw his face had returned to the reddish-pinkish color from when she kissed him outside, what, half an hour ago…? Maybe a little more than that, but it was there as his mouth remained open in a silent gasp and the tendons in his neck bulged. He was concentrating on not cocking it up, which she genuinely appreciated, prompting her to lean down and kiss the tip of his beaky nose.

“You’re doing well,” she whispered sweetly. He could only make a thin noise, one that made her laugh. “The Wolf of Whitehall isn’t as ferocious when on his bare back, now is he?” Taking that as a challenge, he flipped them over and carefully pinned her shoulders so that he could murmur in her ear.

“Then let me prove there’s still some life left in this old sack of skin.”

Grinding, grinding, hips crashing into hips, Clara and Malcolm worked themselves up into a fervor, both triumphantly coming within seconds of one another. Completely spent, he nearly crashed atop of her, littering her neck and shoulder with tender kisses. She gently ran her fingers through his grey curls, now damp with sweat, as she stared up at the ceiling and accepted his attentive aftercare.

“Mmm, that was good,” she hummed. “I don’t think I’ve had a shag like that since…” She trailed off, her eyes going wide.

“…since when?” At the lack of answer, he propped himself up on his elbows in order to look her in the eyes. So round, so brown… “Clara? Since when…?” He stopped as she placed her hand against his cheek, caressing it gently.

“…Doctor…?”

“ _Clara_ … my Clara…” He blinked tears from his eyes, only to realize that she was crying as well. “How did we…?”

“I don’t know—just shag me again, my silly old space-stick-insect,” she laughed.

…and he did, again, and again, until the telltale wheeze of the TARDIS’s parking break coming from the sitting room prompted them to hurriedly put on their clothes and rush out towards the stars.


End file.
